He scoffs. “It’s on the calendar. It might as well be etched into the annals of history.”

“It’s pronounced anals,” Ashleigh says.

Miles looks to me, brow lifting.

I shake my head. “It’s definitely not. And you really don’t have to ferry me around. I can just, like, buy a map.”

He rolls his eyes, slumps forward on his forearms at the desk. “Just be ready at one p.m., okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

He looks between me and Ashleigh. “Should I expect you at Cherry Hill tonight?”

“I’ve got Read-a-thon stuff I need to work on,” I say.

“And my kid’s having friends over to play video games,” Ashleigh says. “So I’ll be shoveling pizza rolls in and out of the oven until dawn. But he’s at his dad’s again next Sunday night, if you guys want to do something then.”

“Should we expect Craig too,” Miles teases, leaning across the desk, vaguely flirtatiously.

Ashleigh shudders. “No, no, we should not. Daphne can fill you in on that. I can’t bring myself to utter it aloud again.”

“He had too much Phish,” I explain.

“Like an aquarium?” Miles says.

“Like posters upon posters of Phish. The band,” I say.

“What’s wrong with Phish?” he wants to know.

“Nothing, in moderation,” Ashleigh volunteers.

“But he also had commemorative mugs and action figures and cardboard cutouts. And . . . I want to say sheets?”

“Hand towels,” she corrects me. “I don’t begrudge a man a hobby, but if you’re forty and your apartment has a theme, I just don’t see it working out for us.”

“Well, shit,” Miles says. “That rules out pretty much everyone I know.”

“I’ve seen your place,” Ashleigh says. “I didn’t see a cohesive theme. Unless it was major depressive episode.”

“When did you see my room?” Miles asks.

“I picked Daphne up there,” she says, apparently happy to admit to her snooping.

“Actually, the theme is, you’re never invited over again,” I tell Ashleigh. Then, to Miles: “What time do you need to get into work?”

“Shit!” He pitches himself forward over the desk to check the time on my computer. His eyes flash back to mine, and he points for good measure, which really accentuates the Popeye-style anchor tattoo on his bicep. “Tomorrow. One o’clock. Don’t be late.”

“I never am,” I say.

Miles is fifteen minutes late.

I tell him this when he enters the apartment.

“I know,” he says. “Sorry. I went to get coffee, and the line was really long.” He holds out a paper cup to me. I recognize the stamp on it as being from Fika, the shop I stopped in to on my way to work yesterday.

“Thank you,” I say.

He doesn’t answer, just waits expectantly for me to take a sip, I guess.

“I don’t really drink coffee,” I say. “Unless I’m super tired, it makes me too jittery.”

His brow furrows, his lips knitting together. “You had one of their cups on your desk yesterday, so I assumed . . .”

“Chai,” I say.

He taps his temple, like he’s nailing the information to his head.

“Should we go?” I ask.

Outside our building, the sudden daylight briefly scalds my retinas. I lose all sense of direction, somehow running directly into Miles when he was just beside me.

He catches my upper arms and turns me toward his truck, half a block up the street.

“So where are we going,” I ask.

“Shopping.”

“Really?” I turn toward him, the wind whipping my hair across my face. I catch a fistful and push it out of my eyes, pinning it to my forehead. “Are we doing a makeover montage?”

He looks down at himself. “Are you trying to tell me something here?”

“I mean, when you showed up at Story Hour yesterday, I caught Mrs. Dekuyper looking between you and a Big Bad Wolf picture book, like she was trying to spot the difference.”

“Yeah, right,” he says, “she thought I was hot.”

“You don’t even know which one Mrs. Dekuyper was,” I point out.

“They all thought I was hot,” he says. “Women of a certain age love me.”

“You must remind them of when they were young,” I say, “and Abraham Lincoln was People’s Sexiest Man Alive.”

He unlocks the passenger door of his truck and hauls it open with one hand, while he scratches his bearded jaw with the other. “You think I should shave it?”

“I think you should do whatever you want.” I climb onto the ripped seat.

“But you think the beard is bad.” He closes the door, the window rolled down between us.